A TOAST TO
THOSE WHO
FOUGHT THE
BATTLE OF THE BULGE
by
Eli J. Warach
For me
and countless tens of thousands of other, this New Year's Day is an especially
pensive and poignant one. Many of us who served in the European Theater in
World War II recognized
that 1945 would be a watershed year. Few of us, however, knew at the time just
how great yet horrible, how gallant yet costly, January 1, 1945, would be. For
us it turned out to
be a crucial--a make-or-break--day in the Battle of the Bulge.
Our
unit, the 42nd Tank Battalion of the 11th Armored Division, part of Patton's
Third Army, was in Belgium and was about to start the drive to clear the road
to Bastogne. The cold, the
snow, the atmosphere all contributed to an eerie foreboding on New Year's Eve.
Suffice to say, none of us were exactly in a festive mood. I recall breaking out a bottle of Scotch
that I had stashed away in the tank. We each had one drink and for a number of
tankers, that was the last drink they ever had.
To this
day, few of our survivors have big celebrations on New Year's Even. Our thoughts occupy us, namely the bloody reality of New Year's Day. The acts of bravery and gallantry performed
that day may not be recorded in history books or records--but they live with me
forever. I don't think it is an exaggeration
to say that the impact of those days will affect me and my tank company for as
long as we live-of in far too many cases, as long as they lived. Let it also be
noted that we did take our objective.
Company
D was a light tank unit. Simply put, our tanks were comparatively light, with
minimal armor shielding and our largest weapon was a 37mm gun. In today's armies, armored cars
carry bigger and more effective weapons. Often, when 1 think about that
gigantic tank battle on New Year's Day 51 years ago, I think of Tennyson's
Charge of the Light Brigade. How
fitting. Despite the best Laid plans,
war never runs according to expectation.
Early
morning, January 1, 1945, 1 was given orders to lead the attack with my platoon
of light tanks, with two other light-tank platoons following. When I asked what
our intelligence reported ahead of us, I was told: "Just enemy infantry with machine guns." Well, that was true as we began rolling down
a slope toward a tree line. There indeed was infantry. We disposed of that
obstacle and then came through a tree line.
Then
the sight that I'll never forget. As far as the eye could me to the right of
us, to the left of us, and in depth in front of us were enemy tanks-big enemy tanks. Later we were told they were Tiger tanks-but no difference, Tiger,
Panther or any other variety, many of them carried the infamous 88-the scourge of
even big tanks.
It was
so bad that I knew, absolutely knew, we were dead As our light tanks were methodically
being knocked out and burning, my tank
lost half a track to an 88 shell, but managed, slipping and sliding on snow and
ice, to knock out a Tiger tank putting our last round into the engine
compartment at the rear of the enemy tank, setting it on fire.
Meanwhile,
the next platoons were rolling forward only to be mowed down in flaming pyres.
We managed to pick up two badly wounded men, as they were struggling to get
away from intense enemy fire. One, Murray Kaye (of Paramus), who died a few
years back, was carrying his tank commander over his shoulder-through the hail
of bullets. Kaye's legs were shattered at the time.
For
years, I thought they both were deed-and they thought that I was deed. No one
believed that that inferno could be avoided.
I
remember that after we got the wounded to the aid station, our crew looked at
the track-almost torn in half-and unanimously decided to go back into the
battle even though our colonel told us to stay put. There was a feeling of: What
the hell, we're going to die anyway. And so we went back to fight.
I'11
never forget that tank crew, my gunner, Joe Crooks; the driver, Refugio
Hinoyas, whom I can't locate; and Bill "Tex" Phelps, a lanky
newcomer. He went on to remain in the service, served in Korea and Vietnam, and
retired as a colonel. Yes, we lived through that. I don't know how.
New
Year's Day 1945 lives with all of us who survived that battle. Sure we went on to re-form and fight our way
into the heart of Germany and wound up in Austria-where we liberated the
Mauthausen death camp.
I
recall how when we first went into combat, I knew that I would survive the war.
During the Battle of the Bulge, I knew just as assuredly that it was impossible
to survive. The odds were so badly stacked against it.
Finally,
I recall the Charge of the Light Brigade. Our light tanks were not supposed to
lead that attack. The orders somehow
got twisted and misinterpreted.
So
today, I'll drink a toast to honor the warriors who fell and to those who are
still with us. There never were more magnificent
fighting troops. And perhaps I'll have
a second drink to those P47 pilots who came out when the skies cleared and
blasted those big enemy tanks.
And
yes, we did clear the road to Bastogne.